


She's Dead

by ManyRelish



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManyRelish/pseuds/ManyRelish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You jab him with your foot. That's when he looks up at you with those eyes of his. They're dull, and it fucking breaks something in you when you see him like that. You don't let it show.<br/>“Shouldn't you be home with miss Holly?”<br/>“She's dead, Jack.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a terrible writer.  
> You've been warned.  
> It's also a sequel to Tresspass, but you don't really need to read that one to get this one.

It's been years since you'd seen each other. Over a decade. But there he is, standing on a street corner and smoking a cigarette like it was no one's business (which it isn't, but honestly you want him to come off as a jerk in your mind). You approached him slowly, because God knows how he'd react to seeing you now. You aren't the scrawny gangster kid you were back in high school. Now you're the scrawny full-blown mobster boss. And it shows.

He sees you when you step out of the shadows, and his eyes light up and he drops his cigarette. Your lips start to curl into a smirk because, damn, you've still got it.

But then he looks away. Someone joins him, a pretty girl with short hair. Light brown, bright eyes, all shits and giggles. You really want them to be friends.

But he kisses her.

And you can only stare.

When they part she's grinning and about to pull him across the street. But his eyes are on you, and she notices. She's not dumb.

“Percival, who is this?” Her voice is shaky a bit, and she looks like she could break into hysterics at any moment. You wait for him to reply. He probably doesn't even remember your name. Fuck him, then. There's a long silence, then,

“Jack?”

“Well if it isn't my little Sleuth. Come crawling back to Midnight City, huh?” You sneer.

“You're still here?” He looks so... confused. Like you didn't tell him you were going to run this whole goddamn city thirteen years ago. “Wait, of course you are. What am I saying? No, I'm not crawling back. This place just has a fuck load of crime, which means more money for me.”

“So you're a badge, then?” you ask. How fitting, he follows his asshat father's footsteps.

He starts laughing. You're actually shocked by this. He hasn't seen you in thirteen years and he laughs at you. It's like he still thinks you're best buddies or something. Well, you're not. And you're going to prove it to him by introducing a knife to his gut.

“He's a private detective,” the girl answers back, holding on to his arm possessively.

“Who is this bitch?” You demand and step forward as if to make your blades known to her as well, but your sleuth gets in the way.

“Jack this is Holly Doverly, my fiancee.”

You can only stare at him. Because fuck. Fuck. He's engaged? To that chick from your high school? They never even dated! You would know, you were too busy sucking all his time up with your shenanigans. Speaking of shenanigans, you decide to bring one up.

“Well, miss Doverly, you're fiancee's not a virgin.”

“No, he's not,” she replies. The hysteria is still there, but she's damn bold, you'll give her that.

“That's a bit old fashioned, isn't it, Jack?” your sleuth asks. You glare at him.

“It's Spades Slick, dumbass.”

They leave then. Your sleuth drags her away, and she keeps looking back at you with fear in her eyes. You'd like that, but you're more stuck on the idea that he has a fiancee... and it's not you.

 

Despite your hatred towards Holly Doverly, you didn't kill her. In fact, you expected to see that sleuth running around town with a gold band on his finger, happily solving whatever mystery there was. So you still love him, it was obvious he was over you. And as much as you'd like to kill her you know what he's capable of. That green fury he pulled off all those years ago still haunts your memories. You'd never admit it out loud, but you never want that fury turned on you.

So of course you're surprised when you pass through the rough side of town to find him sitting against a bar with a bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand. You thought he'd be at home with his adorable wife-to-be cracking stupid puns and talking about how great their life together will be. But here he is, blank expression, on the street, in the dark.

You decide to mess with him.

“What do I have here? Some goody-two-shoes sitting around waiting to get mugged?”

He doesn't look up at you. It doesn't even look like he's breathing.

“Oi, fuck face, I'm talking to you!”

You jab him with your foot. That's when he looks up at you with those eyes of his. They're dull, and it fucking breaks something in you when you see him like that. You don't let it show.

“Shouldn't you be home with miss Holly?”

“She's dead, Jack.”

Immediately all your insides skyrocket. Yes, she's fucking dead! Good thing, that stupid bitch, how dare she take your place in Stanford's life! A smirk twitches at the corners of your lips, but then the look on his face crushes all the feelings you had before. It just snaps them into pieces and throws them in a fire. And now you're just staring at each other with sad faces (you're more shocked than sad, really). You help him up, and he slumps against you. He doesn't cry, but his face is streaked with dried tears. He doesn't have a lot of energy, he's pale and thin, he looks like that strange fellow your right hand man is fooling around with. Okay, maybe not that bad, but he looks pretty damn bad. You can't help taking him back to your place.

You get him some real liquor, which he drinks without hesitation. You don't really know what to do at this point. You don't want to ask how it happened or why, though you have a feeling it had to do with one of the minor gangs in the city. Despite the fact that he's so upset, you still find yourself happy that he's yours again.

“You disappeared,” he mutters when you sit next to him with your own glass of alcohol.

“Hmm?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do, wait around for you? You disappeared, Jack! Where the hell did you go?” He's drunk, but how he's looking at you with such a betrayed expression breaks more things in you. You didn't think you had enough things to break like this.

“I had business,” you reply.

“We thought you were dead. Even Damien didn't know where you were, so I gave up looking for you.”

“You looked for me?”

“For three years, Jack. I looked for you for three years, and it ruined me. If I hadn't met Holly, I don't know...” He trails off, and you're afraid he's about to cry. You don't want to deal with a crying man.

“Yeah, yeah, you would have ended up floating face down in the ocean or something. Is there a part where I'm supposed to care?” You do care. You care a lot.

He doesn't say anything after that, just hides his face in his hands. You don't say anything either. More things are shattering and you really just want to stop seeing him like this. You don't know what to say, honestly. He used to laugh at your detachment to everything, he used to call you out when you pretended to not care. Not anymore. You push the bottle closer to him.

“Help yourself, Perce,” you say quietly. You wish it didn't sound so weak, but apparently it was the right thing to say because soon after the words left your mouth his lips were on yours. Kissing Percival Stanford is still as fucking tingly and weird-ass romantic shit now as it was back then. Only he's much better at it, even when drunk.

Before you know it the two of you are on the floor, with him straddling your hips. If you were any sort of moral citizen you'd probably stop him, but you're the leader of the Midnight Crew, and you also happen to be in love with him, and do to both those facts you are not going to stop him.

You briefly think about the first time you ever got in his pants. It was about three weeks after he was released from the hospital. His father was gone, and you climbed up to his window and watched him do his homework until he noticed you, freaked out, and let you in. The next minutes were full of screaming and punching, then eventually kissing, and finally him becoming brave enough to feel you up. You're distracted from your memories when his hips hit yours. You're not 18 anymore, you're 31, and Percival's actually got facial hair this time and he somewhat knows what he's doing. You cut him some slack, he is pretty damn drunk.

You'd also like to think that you've gained some class in thirteen years. Back then you might have been okay with banging Percy Stanford in an alien jail cell while an morbid alien race watched, but now you're not going to fuck him on the floor of one of your many apartments. You're going to fuck him on the bed. You shove him off of you, get to your feet, and drag him to your bedroom. You'd like to say it was as simple and clean as that, but once you're off the floor he's got his mouth on yours again and you shove him against the wall. There's a lot of this being repeated as you gradually make your way toward to bed room, shedding a few articles of clothing along the way. He's not crying, but he's not looking at you, either. Mostly he has his eyes closed, but when they're open he's looking off somewhere else.

You practically throw him on your bed. The feeling you have at the moment is sort of inexplicable. You're not thinking about yourself like you usually do. Every man and woman in your bed these past few years has had to worry about themselves while you worried about yourself. There was no question about it. If they didn't get off before you, tough shit. But now you're staring at him naked on your bed and all you want to do is make him feel better. You're more worried about him than yourself, and it's so uncharacteristic of you that you're actually scaring yourself. You'd blame him for doing this to you except it's not his fault. You just really want to stop seeing that look on his face.

He doesn't open his eyes once you're inside him. He never says your name as you fuck him either. You even made a point of going slow for him. He certainly isn't quiet, especially when you speed up because you don't stand going slow anymore, and even more so when you start jerking him off in time. He just never says your name.

He doesn't say anything after, either, just rolls onto his side and stares at the wall for a while. You don't know how long.

When you wake up he's not in your bed. He's sitting by the window, fully clothed, just looking out at Midnight City. The look on his face hasn't changed. When he turns to face you, there's so much hurt in his eyes that you break. Your whole being just breaks then.

What you did last night wasn't the right thing to do.

Because you weren't her.

And she's dead.


End file.
